


REDEYE

by onelater



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Aziraphale and the Doctor are both scared of Emotions, Bisexual Doctor (Doctor Who), Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Rose Tyler, Comedy, F/M, Getting Together, Kidnapping, M/M, did anyone ask for a crossover? no! except my soul, idk what other tags i wanna put here to avoid plot spoilers so. anyway here's... whatever this is!, neither of those are plot relevant but it's important to me that we're on the same page there, no i’ve never looked at a map of the London area of England and i don't think i ever will, post-canon by about a year, sort of an action dramedy, trying for a three part doctor who episode type feel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25565746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onelater/pseuds/onelater
Summary: An angel, an "angel," a demon, and two time travelers walk into a bar. Bartender says, hey alien, you dropped your wallet. All of them look up.--A Good Omens/Doctor Who crossover featuring an original non-human species, Ten/Rose canon divergence (sort of?), and comedy-centric, episodic writing. Partially an excuse to write two Tennants nearly killing each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51





	REDEYE

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for opening my fic. I don't have an editor, so if there's mistakes in here, that's why. This fic is a labor of love and geekiness and some mild insomnia. I hope you enjoy!

The first strange thing that happened that day, the thing that probably should’ve set Crowley on edge from the beginning, was that when Crowley held the ice cream out to Aziraphale, he didn’t even react. He just kept staring off into the middle distance, which made Crowley just the tiniest bit annoyed, considering the unusual February heat was making the bright red ice lolly melt and drip onto his fingers.

“Aziraphale,” he said. “Angel, are you alright?”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked and took the pop. “Yes, I’m fine, I -- I think some poor thing over by the lake is hurt, though.” 

He nodded with his chin, indicating. Crowley followed his gaze and caught sight of it almost immediately: a white mass of feathers shivering at the edge of the lakebed. Looked like a swan, or probably two or three swans given the sheer volume of feathers, hunched over in pain, or maybe protecting something. He squinted in faint suspicion. Six thousand years, he’d never seen those water rats acting like that.

“Well, that’s a thing, huh,” he said. “We should get going before our bench gets taken by that old lady with the miniature pig again.”

“Miss Wilkins and Eloise are perfectly wonderful and I always enjoy sharing time with them,” Aziraphale responded as he always did, not bothering to take his eyes off the figure. He placed a hand on Crowley’s arm. “Really, dear, I think it’s hurt. I just won’t feel right about myself leaving without at least… checking on it. Maybe one of them broke a wing.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale for a moment. Then he sighed. “Fine, but if she’s there, I’m not sitting next to the pig this time.”

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale smiled. He urged Crowley toward the figure with his hand on his arm, handing him the ice pop back again.

\--

“START IT UP!”

Rose threw the TARDIS door shut behind her with a slam, leaning back against it for good measure. The locals weren’t all too happy with them; she could feel their long, curved talons scraping against the bright blue wood behind her. She glanced through the window, then regretted it, and shouted, “DOCTOR! Any day now!”

The Doctor, having sprinted up ahead, struck the console with his hands, laughing raucously in between his panted breaths. He looked back at her with a wolfish grin, and then he whooped -- “ALLONS-Y!” -- and threw a lever forward, leaning backward as the TARDIS lurched to view her upside down. “And where exactly is it that you want to go, miss Rose Tyler?” he asked, rolling the ‘r’s languidly. “All of time and space. The whooole universe is our oyster.”

“Except back there,” Rose pointed out, her lips curling even as she sighed in relief.

“Oh,” said the Doctor, righting himself and looking out the empty window with a furrowed brow, “no, I don’t think we’ll be welcome back there for quite some time.” He looked at Rose, feigning seriousness for a moment before he cracked a smile, and she laughed easily now that they were out of danger.

“Well…” Rose paused. She pushed off the door with her fingertips and walked slowly up beside the Doctor, looking at the controls thoughtfully, like she knew what they did. (She was working on it.) “Honestly, it might be nice to… take a break. Maybe pop back to London for a day and just relax.”

“Yeah, much as I love the chaos, I think that last one was enough for a bit. Not for too long, though.” He threw another lever and turned a knob or three, glancing at the display screen intermittently. “Any particular year you’d like to visit?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Rose shrugged. “We could just go back to my time. You know, good old 2007.”

The Doctor looked at her skeptically. “We’re already going back to Earth,” he all but whined. “Let’s make it a bit more exciting, hey?”

“ _Doctor,_ I don’t want to time travel this time! I just want to relax.”

“Just a teensy-weensy bit. Just a _few_ years ahead, Rose,” he wheedled, slouching toward her piteously. “Come on, please?”

“Doctor,” Rose sighed. “Alright, fine, fine.”

He grinned victoriously and adjusted a knob on the console a few ticks. “I do love it when you humor me.”

“I do it pretty often,” she teased. “How far forward are we going?”

“Not long, I promise,” the Doctor reassured her. “The year 2020. Nothing much different, really, except the WiFi is better.”

\--

As they approached the hunched figure, Aziraphale and Crowley grew more and more confused about the nature of the thing’s form. There were so many wings, but they couldn’t see any heads, webbed feet or fluffy tails. It was difficult to parse where the wings were coming from; thinking about it gave them the same kind of headache as looking at the sun for too long. 

As they drew closer, they could hear quiet crying from within the bed of feathers, like a child sobbing after scraping their knee. As far as either of them could remember, swans didn’t cry like that. They shared a bewildered glance and then both individually decided to put it out of their minds -- it wasn’t like either of them were biologists of any sort, after all. The suspicion faded by degrees, and Aziraphale knelt down tentatively beside it.

“So. Um. Hello,” he greeted pleasantly. “Are you… are you alright?”

“I’m scared… I’m so scared. Please help me.”

Aziraphale decided to stop questioning things.

“What’s wrong?” His hand wavered in the air above one of its wings, unsure if he should touch. That was usually off-limits with his own kind, after all. “What is it, little one?”  
“I’m lost,” it replied, voice hitching on a sob. “I’m lost and I don’t know where we are or how we got here.”

“You’re in London. You’re in Saint James’ Park.” He glanced over at Crowley in concern. “Did you lose your parents?”

Crowley just stared. He was quite sure they’d never given swans the ability to talk. He would’ve remembered that much, and he probably wouldn’t have made them sound so human. It felt off, but somehow it still didn’t feel off enough. Somewhere below it all he knew he should have been more wary, concerned, confused, maybe even horrified, but it all just slid off his mind, like water off. Off a, um, hm. Crowley’s brow furrowed. What exactly was he thinking just now?

The swan parted two feathers slowly, a set of bright, yellow eyes blinking owlishly out at Aziraphale. “Who are you?” it inquired airily. 

“My name is A.Z. Fell,” he said. “I’m a bookseller. I own a bookshop near the center of town.”

“You sell books! Oh, you must know lots of things, Mr. Fell,” it gushed. “What kinds of things do you know-- what do you do?”

“Well, I sell books.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley a little desperately, trying to figure out some normal things that regular humans know how to do. “I… I can restore historical texts, um… I have--” here he preened a bit “--I have a little hobby for magic tricks.”

It flounced forward a few inches, the feathers blinking over its two peerless eyes. “Oh? Oh? What do you know?”

“Well I’m a _bit_ out of practice, but --”

Aziraphale reached behind the thing to perform a simple trick, and subsequently realized he’d used up all his change on the tip at the ice cream stand -- so he miracled a pound into his fingers, pulling it back with a smile. The thing just about shone in excitement, its feathers ruffling and twitching gleefully. The wings fluttered up and down, and in the split seconds where they parted, Crowley could see the shadows between them convulsing like spilled oil. His head hurt again.

“You did magic!” cried the figure.

Aziraphale twisted the coin in his hands, feeling flattered and maybe a bit guilty; he had used a miracle for that one, so it wasn’t quite what he would consider magic anymore. “Oh,” he said, shrugging bashfully. “Well,” he added for good measure.

“No, no, it was lovely! I loved your magic.” It ruffled again, shuffling itself closer to Aziraphale. “Please, will you come with me? I want to see more magic, please, I want to see more magic.”

“Oh, no, no, I’m terribly sorry, but really, we should,” Aziraphale said, his face scrunched up in consternation and his rate of speech rapidly declining, “I should, we really should be going, really, so…so we can find your family.”

“No, no! Please, I want to see more magic!”

He adjusted his tie awkwardly. “Yes, well, I--”

“I want to see more magic. I want to see more magic, please, please! I want to see more. I _need_ to see more, I need to see it, I need to. I need to see,” the little thing raved and raved, a desperate tinniness bleeding into its voice that belied its otherwise childlike wonder.

“Really, I’m-- I’m very sorry, but we should be going, find your parents and all, I--”

“I’m very sorry, too. I can’t allow you to go.”

Aziraphale blinked. “What?”

“I said,” the strange bird began. 

It rose smoothly up from the ground, many disorganized limbs converging into two enormous, meter-long wings folding over a sea of bright eyes and corporeal shadows. At the top, three eyes rose into prominence, and they all turned their gaze down at Aziraphale imperiously. When it spoke again, Crowley could feel the bass of it hit his chest, all the childishness and naivety suddenly gone. But it was more than that that had Crowley frozen in his place. A bright light blinked into existence just behind the largest eye, shining in a golden half circle.

The undisguised angel boomed, “I CANNOT LET YOU GO.”

“Oh my God,” breathed Aziraphale. “You’re-- you’re--”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley in abject terror. He grabbed his hand, and he squeezed it tightly. Crowley thought he might puke. He looked up at the angel and, surprising even himself, stepped in front of Aziraphale. 

“WHAT DO YOU LOT WANT WITH US ANYMORE?!” he shouted, adrenaline and anger mixing into a molotov cocktail. “IF YOU SO MUCH AS LAY A FEATHER ON HIM--”

“DO NOT BE AFRAID,” the angel thundered.

“I’M NOT AFRAID!” Crowley shrieked. “I’M BLOODY PISSED, IS WHAT I AM!”

“OH. WELL DON’T BE THAT EITHER,” she rumbled dubiously, as though that were implied. “JUST, CHILL.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was calm suddenly, transcendent almost, as he laid a hand on Crowley’s arm and stepped beside him. Crowley looked over to find his eyes tepid, lax, and unfocused. “It’s alright.”

Crowley couldn’t breathe. Impending death at the hands of the angels again, and Aziraphale was just going to walk into it -- to go quietly -- all grace and poise and-- and--

“DO NOT BE AFRAID,” the angel repeated. 

Her halo glowed gently, and somehow, Crowley _wasn’t_ afraid anymore. He wasn’t anything, actually; his fingertips felt like white noise, and his heartbeat just sort of disappeared. His breath came and went on its own. Aziraphale let go of his hand and walked forward. The angel reached one of her huge wings out to him and guided him inside, disappearing him into the mass of eyes and darkness as if he were simply stepping back inside his bookshop. The whole time, Crowley’s eyes listed vacantly forward, the mess of Aziraphale’s tan jacket and the bleach white feathers and the dark, ancient shadows blurring into a series of impossible images that his brain wrote off as fantasy. Because surely this wasn’t happening; it was all too ridiculous.

Then the wings closed around Aziraphale, and the angels rose as one, and all the fear and anger and mortal peril rushed back into Crowley’s veins. His lungs constricted violently. The angel, finished with her business and ready to return home, started to fly off, and Crowley panicked. Desperate, he fired a miracle at the angel, trying to force her to the ground, but it just zinged off of one of the many colossal feathers and hit a pigeon instead. Crowley looked blankly from the dead bird and back up to the angel. His eyes went wide behind his sunglasses.

"I TOLD YOU," chided the angel, "NOT TO BE AFRAID."

"GIVE HIM BACK!" Crowley shouted back. He thought to fly after them, but after they unfurled, his wings simply fell out behind him, limp and impossible, so he half-ran, half-stumbled after the figure in the sky. "BASTARDS! BASTARDS, ALL OF YOU!"

But the angel ignored him. She spread her largest, outermost wings behind herself, beat them heavily into the quiet park air, and flew off, leaving Crowley behind to the distant sounds of children's play and the pigeon at his feet.

Shit, that's right -- the pigeon.

Crowley knelt to examine the poor bird. Its dusty gray wings were bent in several wrong directions, its neck snapped, eyes still open and fearing God. Guilt pooled in his stomach. He scooped the creature up and cradled it in his hands. He passed his right palm over its prone form and watched it right itself. The air returned to its frantic lungs, the twitch to its feathers, the light to its round, anxious eyes. It peered up at Crowley in what he would've liked to imagine was gratitude, and then it flew from his cupped palms, going away.

Crowley watched it go. Then, once he was sure it was gone, he wept.

\--

The Doctor leaned his hand against the door. He sniffed, then coughed into his hand, and tilted his chin up in a way he must have believed was authoritative. Really he just looked like a librarian who lost his glasses. “Now, I know it’s just Earth, but we’re also over a decade in the future, so--” here he tapped his hand against the door twice, _thunk thunk_ “--some ground rules.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Doctor, we’ve been through this before. I learned my lesson with dad.”

“Alright, just.” He sighed. “Just, don’t go looking for your mum or any of your friends or anything. It’ll be weird for the both of you. And we’re not here to change anything -- as far as I know, nothing big is happening this year, you know, universally speaking, so I can’t imagine anything coming here and setting up shop.”

“Right,” said Rose; then the Doctor took another breath, and she got the feeling he was just going to keep talking for ages if she didn’t interrupt, so she nudged the Doctor a bit with her shoulder. “Well, let’s just get on with it! I’m hungry, I want chips.”

He sighed, nodding a few times. “Right, right. Here we go, then!” 

He pushed open the door to a bright, sunny day in Saint James’ Park. The breeze that passed over them was a bit warm, not altogether unpleasant, though he had expected much colder from February in London. Rose took a deep breath beside him and smiled, wrapping her arm around his back.

“This is nice,” she said. “I already feel so relaxed.”

“Me too,” he agreed. “Actually, I,” he continued, but then he stopped. He turned his head to the left, leaning a bit out of the door in confusion. “Sorry, do you hear that?”

Rose followed his gaze, but the only thing there was the calm, grassy knoll of Saint James. A dog chased after a soft frisbee in the distance. “Hear what?”

“Sounds like someone yelling… or something,” he said. “I don’t, ah--”

Just then, an enormous, winged figure came from the right, screaming past the TARDIS. It looked like -- like a mess of chaos and light -- an explosion of power and, and -- maybe a bunch of swans having an orgy that all decided to merge minds or something. Eyes protruded from the gaps between the huge white feathers, peering wildly down at them in what the Doctor thought was somewhere between agitation and genuine fear.

“Well,” Rose started to say.

Then another winged figure sprinted past them in hot pursuit. His wings, equally huge, dragged behind him uselessly, and for a second the Doctor thought it might’ve been part of a cosplay, until they bumped against a rock and the red-head at the front cursed under his breath. Then he cursed again, this time not at all under his breath.

“BASTARDS!” he cursed, very loudly, screaming at the rapidly receding swan orgy. He picked up the rock and tried to throw it, but it was too heavy, and after much effort it landed at his feet instead. “BASTARDS, ALL OF YOU!”

Rose looked at the Doctor and raised an eyebrow. “Nothing much different, huh?” she said. 

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking between her and the strange bird man collapsed ten or so yards ahead, and motioned vaguely with his free hand. Finally the Doctor dropped his hand and said, “Yeah, I’ve no clue.”

...

The winged man was crying. He had been crying for about ninety seconds now, and neither the Doctor nor Rose knew what to do about it.

“Why don’t you go talk to him?” Rose whispered, leaning up into him.

“What? Me?” The Doctor found this notion preposterous, as he was known to have the emotional processing power of an expired cashew. He glanced rapidly between Rose and the man, eventually settling on staring at her in disbelief. “I mean-- _me?”_

Rose nodded, because he was the time traveler here, and frankly, she was a little freaked out with what just happened. It was weird, even for them. “Yes! You! You’re the pilot here, go talk to him!” she hissed, her eyes wide and brow furrowed. _“Investigate!”_

They were trying their best to speak quietly, so as not to disturb the stranger, but they were not really succeeding by any metric. Several feet away, unnoticed by the duo as they continued to bicker, the winged man forced himself to stop crying. He twisted around, still on his knees, saw them arguing with each other, and groaned. His world was quietly ending, everything falling apart again just after he had gotten it all together, and he couldn’t even get five minutes’ worth of quiet to process the situation. No, a set of stupid, human lovebirds had to come by and witness the whole tragedy, and fuck, he realized, he left his wings out, and now he’d have to go and waste time miracling the two of them into forgetting about it. He stood, rubbed his eyes roughly, and dusted off the front of his pants with a sigh.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, snapping his fingers and shifting his wings away. “Really, honestly, fuck.”

The Doctor had a very strange feeling just then. It was like someone pinched at the back of his consciousness. It was like someone reached into his brain and yanked all the filing cabinets open with enough force to knock them over, so that the contents spilled into the many, disorganized hallways. It was -- itchy, it was really itchy, actually. He stopped in the middle of his sentence and frowned, rubbing at the spot where his neck joined his skull. He looked at Rose and was about to ask if she had felt it, too, when realization struck. He whipped his head toward the winged man, who was, to his surprise, no longer winged.

“Was that you?” the Doctor asked, wrinkling his nose.

Mr. Wings looked over at him with a start. “W--uh, was I what?”

“The weird-- thing, the thing that just--” here the Doctor did his best to motion illustratively with his hands “--messed with our heads, you know--”

Rose nodded, rubbing the back of her head with a somewhat annoyed expression herself. “You felt that, too, Doctor?”

The Doctor looked down at her and nodded, appreciative of the support. “It was like a weird, like a weird, pully-thing, right? All tingly?”

“Felt a bit like if somebody put pop rocks in my eardrums.”

“Oh, that’s a good--”

“I don’t have time for this,” Mr. Wings groused. He snapped his fingers again, scowling.

“There it is again!” the Doctor said, eyes wide and interested. “What is that? Is that some kind of psychic-- psychic--” He motioned desperately with his hands, the right word just on the tip of his tongue.

Wings growled, snapping his fingers rapidly at them.

“Stop it-- stop, that tickles!” Rose cackled, falling into the Doctor’s side as he beamed down at her. 

“It does, doesn’t it?” he agreed, “like a feather duster on your brain.” 

Now Wings looked down at his hands in horror, summarily at a loss. “What the fuck?” he asked. 

“Well,” said the Doctor. He gently pushed Rose off of his chest and turned toward the winged man, tilting his head inquisitively. “I’m guessing just now you were trying some psychic effect on us, for-- some reason,” he said, stepping forward a few cocky steps. “But my ship’s programmed to deflect those, so you can give up on that now.”

Wings turned his gaze toward the Doctor, his wide eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, brows pulled together in wary confusion. “You’re not human at all, are you?”

“Nope. Well!” The Doctor jutted his chin to the side, indicating Rose. “Well, _Rose_ is a human, I’m a timelord -- the Doctor, by the way -- but that’s not really important right now, ’cause you’re not a human either, right? But I’ve never seen an alien who looked quite like you do, and so I have to ask, if you’ll forgive the rudeness-- what exactly are you?”

“Uh,” said Wings. “W-- I-- it’sj-- a,” he continued. He blew a long sigh through his lips, tilted his head, raised his eyebrows, and finally said, _“well.”_

\--

The ride to heaven was thoroughly pleasant. Thoughtless, really. Like falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. The inky darkness surrounding Aziraphale applied a gentle pressure to his body, like a hug from all sides, and it took very little effort to let out a gentle sigh, lean back, and let the comfort take him. 

Distantly, he realized he had never been taken to heaven this way; most of the time they sent for him and he came through the main entrance. Otherwise, they would simply teleport him, and he would arrive instantly, slightly frazzled and uneasy at the abrupt change of scenery. Never before had they sent an escort to collect him, let alone one that carried him so carefully.

But the thought remained distant. Here and now, close enough to touch, there was only the gentle embrace of the darkness and the sense that everything was going to be okay. He closed his eyes. He slept.

When he woke up, Aziraphale was in a room he had never seen before.

He opened his eyes slowly, warily, expecting the usual bright vacancy of Heaven to assault his unadjusted eyes. But there was no such pain, no sudden, jarring whiteness. Instead, when he finally looked around, he found a room of industrial grays. He was sitting in a large, steel chair, a throne almost, except for the black straps that held his arms to the rests. Above him, a tall ceiling laden heavily with black wires gaped downward. Ahead, a staircase led up to a low railing, a shuttered door, and a bulky console. It was certainly nothing like any room in Heaven Aziraphale had ever seen; and, being a principality, he had seen rather a lot of them. Setting aside his confusion, Aziraphale looked down at his arms and tried to miracle them free. When nothing happened, he felt his pulse begin to race.

Aziraphale heard a quiet hiss as the door opened and the angel from before glided in, stopping abruptly as she saw him struggling with the restraints.

“Oh. You’re awake,” she said faintly, idling by the console. Her voice, Aziraphale noticed, now that she was neither disguised nor shouting, was light, and sweet, and vaguely apologetic. “I didn’t expect you to get up so quickly.”

Aziraphale looked up at the angel. He was -- alarmed, confused, disoriented, even a bit angry. The calming effect the angel had placed on him during his capture was fading fast, if not already gone, and he struggled not to panic. His mind raced with urgent questions: Why was Heaven coming after him again? Why didn’t they just teleport him? Didn’t they realize they couldn’t execute him, that he was immune to hellfire, that he definitely was and it wasn’t a trick and don’t go trying it again? What did they want with him? What did they want with Crowley?

But what was most troubling him at the moment, and what he blurted out instinctively before even having the chance to think of something more useful, was, “Where am I?”

“Still in London, don’t worry. We haven’t taken you anywhere,” answered the angel. She shifted a little in the air, her wings beating soundlessly, placidly. “I’m sorry. I know you must be frightened. Your kind never likes being snatched up like that. Neither do I. I really don’t like tricking people.” Then, nervously, she added, “It’s my job, you know. It’s just my job.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “My kind?” he repeated.

“Your kind. You know,” she answered. “Humans.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He paused for a moment, bewildered, then remembered himself and nodded. “Oh! Yes, of course. Humans.” He had no idea what was going on anymore. 

\--

“Stop touching the--” Crowley slapped the Doctor’s hand away from the radio dial. “Stop it.”

 _“Ah!_ Look,” said the Doctor, rubbing the back of his hand reproachfully, “I don’t do long silences. So it’s either I put on music or I’m talking for the rest of the ride.”

Crowley scowled at the Doctor. The Doctor stared back, eyes as cheerfully vacant as a gecko’s, and Crowley realized there was no real argument to be had. “Fine,” he finally sighed. “Fine, put something on.”

The Doctor grinned. “Brilliant,” he said, and reached down to mess with the radio again.

The three of them were in the Bentley, because Crowley had sort of panicked. 

When the Doctor asked what Crowley was, he had realized all at once that he had never encountered the question before. Over six thousand years on Earth, and no human had ever seen him doing some weird non-human bullshit and said, what the fuck are you? ’Cause you’re not a human, that’s for bloody sure! Usually they just made their own assumptions. Grabbed a pitchfork or a torch or two and came running, going on about a witch or a fae or a demon, and get back, ye foul daemon, let ye be cleansed by God’s light, and so on and so forth. The result was that Crowley had never actually had this conversation with anyone before, and so he had no idea how to go about it. 

He had looked around rather helplessly, as though somewhere around him there would be a ten-step guide on how to tell some random people you just met that you’re an actual, literal demon, when the rest of what the Doctor had said caught up with him.

“Hol- hold on a- wait,” Crowley said, waving his hands slowly across each other. “Did you say your name was ‘The Doctor?’ As in, first name, ‘The,’ last name, ‘Doctor?’”

“No, it’s, uh -- it’s -- it’s like a title, like, ah.” The had deflated a bit. “You haven’t heard of me?” he asked.

“No,” said Crowley. “And you’re a… timelord?”

“Uh,” said The. 

He had looked at Crowley, then at Rose, and then back at Crowley again, with a look on his face that was somewhere near the oh-fuck-where-do-I-even-start feeling that Crowley had been unpacking, and Crowley decided they’d probably both benefit from having this discussion in a place that was not a public park and where they wouldn’t freak out passersby with their conversation. He figured his flat would be good enough, and he would’ve just snapped them all to it, but he thought he’d probably pass out if his miracles failed for a twenty-fifth time in a row.

So he shoved them all in the Bentley.

And Crowley was managing. It was weird, being in the car with someone that wasn’t Aziraphale, let alone two someones, but if he clenched his jaw and thought about nothing, he could get through it. He was, you know, he was managing.

Then the Doctor chirped, “Oooh, _Velvet Underground!”_ from around the vicinity of the CD player, and Crowley was no longer managing. _Not now!_ he was thinking. _Oh, wow, abso-_ lute!- _ly not now!_ As the first song crackled to life from his ancient radio, Crowley slapped his hand over the volume button and powered it off again. The Doctor made a noise that could only be described as a squawk, and to cut him off before he started complaining again, Crowley blurted out, “I’m a demon.”

There was a beat of silence. The Doctor opened his mouth once, then twice.

“What, because you’re forcing us to sit in complete silence, or--”

Crowley sent the Doctor a withering glare from the corner of his eye. “You asked what I was before,” he grumbled, sliding his gaze back to the road. “I’m a demon.” 

“A demon?” Rose repeated. Crowley nodded. She shook her head a touch and stressed, “Like, a real, proper demon? Hail Satan and all that?”

“Oka-- o-- okay, well,” Crowley backtracked, “not really, the guy’s my-- eh, used to be my boss, so not really like my deity, I’m not going around hailing him for giving me a shit paystub.” He paused, then frowned. “Actually, come to think of it, that piece of shit never actually _did_ pay me!”

The Doctor locked eyes with Rose in the rearview. “Between this and the Bitter Pill, we’re set to meet God one of these days,” he said, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he earned a goofy laugh from her.

Crowley balked. “I-- wshk?! I’m not joking!” he objected. “I’m an actual, literal demon. I’m a hellspawn. I’m a fallen angel. It’s a whole-- thing! Stop laughing!”

“Sorry-- sorry--” Rose started to say before she broke again. 

Crowley felt his cheeks pink up. He squeezed the steering wheel frustratedly. “I’m serious! I’ve been to board meetings with Beezlebub! When I was an angel, I helped hang up the stars in Alpha Centauri! I’ve been here since before the Earth was a fucking-- passing thought in Her mind. I met Moses! Way more attractive in person than the murals, by the way--”

“Hold on,” said the Doctor, turning towards him with interest, “you said you’ve been here since before the Earth?”

Crowley glanced at him momentarily, gauging his seriousness. Apparently satisfied that he was no longer being teased, he nodded. “That’s right.”

The Doctor squinted and looked searchingly over his face. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Seven thousand years, give or take a century or two.” He shrugged, making the last turn into his neighborhood; he could see his flat up ahead now, and thank Her for that small blessing. “You stop counting after a while. But She made the Earth around six thousand years ago, so, you know. Around that.” 

Finally Crowley slowed to a stop in front of his house, using his genuine care for the Bentley as an excuse to throw his full attention into parallel parking and ignore the two strange people in his car. The Doctor and Rose, meanwhile, seemed also to be in their own separate world, their faces each pulled taught in disquieted expressions. After one more silent moment, the Doctor turned round to face Rose as the car jostled to its full and final stop, flush against the sidewalk, and said, “Rose, you… you don’t think we…?”

Rose licked her lips and nodded. “Yeah, I think so,” she said. Her voice was small. “Just like with dad.”

\--

Crowley hopped swiftly out of the Bentley. He had never been so grateful to exit that car in his life, he thought, not even when it had been on fire. There was just something about his newfound company that, combined with Aziraphale's absence, made him want to jump out of his skin. Something about them just felt wrong. A duplicity, almost. Or maybe just annoyance.

As Crowley approached his front door, he snapped his fingers and sighed with relief as it swung readily open in response to his miracle. Little victories. He walked purposefully inside without waiting for Rose and the Doctor, leaving the door open for them behind himself.

“So, demons exist,” Rose called. 

Crowley heard two car doors slam shut and snapped again to lock the Bentley, feeling another rush of satisfaction when he heard it beep in response. "Uh-huh," he said.

“Angels, too, then?”

Crowley sighed. “That is generally how these things work, yes.” He reached the bookcase and began looking through the titles in his sparse collection.

“Generally ‘these things’ tend not to exist, actually,” the Doctor said, a note of condescension lying beneath his skepticism. “Does God exist, then, as well?”

“Obviously.”

“Oh, of course, obviously,” the Doctor echoed.

Crowley made a face at the Doctor. The Doctor made a face back. And so there they stood for a few moments, making faces at each other like they were adolescent children, as Rose crossed her arms and waited.

“So what are we doing here?” she asked.

Crowley seemed to remember, then, what he was doing, and turned back to the bookshelf, running his fingers searchingly along the spines. “Well, I don’t honestly know why I brought you two, but I need to summon an angel at the moment, so I’m looking for a book.”

“Summon an angel?” The Doctor wrinkled his nose. “Isn’t that a demon thing?”

“Eh, tomato, tomato. Every demon used to be an angel, you know all the old platitudes.” 

“And why would you need to summon an angel?"

"Don't really see how that's your business, pinstripes," Crowley said. Then, "ah, here it is."

Crowley pulled a relatively thin book off the shelf. It was a glossy paperback with hideous graphic design and absolutely no citations. Across the spine and the front cover, in garish cursive, read the title: _Angels & Demons: a Comprehensive Guide to Contact. _ Most of the title was a glittery gold color, except for the word demon, which was a deep red.

It was completely out of place on his bookshelf, which otherwise contained classic titles and poetry books that Aziraphale had gifted to him, all of them beautiful hardcovers, handcrafted and exquisite. But, if he were honest with himself, this book was his favorite in his albeit small collection for several reasons.

It was probably some kind of sin for there to exist informational guides on summoning angels, which was why Crowley had originally purchased it. He had bought it from a very strange Etsy shop several years ago, thinking it might be a fun way to cosmically prank call Aziraphale, but upon receiving his copy and reading the first chapter, he realized it was more like calling the operator for Heaven and asking to be transferred, and, mortified at the idea of ever having to ask one of those angels for a favor, he had promptly filed it away on his shelf. It wasn't a good prank if it affected him, too, he reasoned.

Crowley kept it, though, because there was something about the hammy aesthetic design and cheap quality of manufacturing that had charmed him. It, he thought, felt leagues more human than his hardcover books. It had a certain desperate clutter to it, an exuberance and passion that bled out of everything from the clearly hobbyist-drawn art on the covers to the Microsoft Paint illustrated summoning circles found within. It was, in a word, cute.

In any case, he cracked it open and started skimming the angelic summoning chapters.

"It really isn't my business, no," said the Doctor. "But I'm very nosy, so I think I'd like to know anyway."

Rose gave the Doctor a look. He gave her a look back, raising his hands slightly, like, what, I'm being honest, and she raised her eyebrows and gestured between the two of them, and the Doctor stared at her for a moment before she gave up.

"And," Rose stressed, "we might be able to help with whatever you need to do if you tell us about it."

Crowley looked up at Rose and raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to say that he didn't need their help, or whatever amount of help these two random people -- or, one random person and one apparently famous alien -- could provide, but then he hesitated. Rose smiled earnestly at him from her place beside the door.

"Yeah, fine," Crowley said finally. 

He grabbed a couple pieces of chalk from the shelf and tossed one to her and one to the Doctor. Then he held up the tenth page for them to see.

"This is the summoning circle I need done."

And they got to work.

“So,” prompted Rose some ten minutes later.

The summoning circle was taking longer than she expected to draw, as the details of the markings and angles were more intricate and important than it seemed at first glance. She looked up at the diagram Crowley had torn out of the book, then back down at the circle, and then glanced over at Crowley surreptitiously.

He seemed to be ignoring her.

“So,” she said again, a little louder this time. “Why are you contacting angels?”

“Why would I tell you that?” Crowley deadpanned, not looking up from his place in the book.

Rose frowned. "We had a deal. We draw the circles, you tell us what's going on."

Crowley glanced up momentarily. “Shoddy work,” he grumbled. “You've written the Latin wrong again, Doctor.” The Doctor paused and blinked in surprise. “And that angle should be less obtuse.”

The Doctor looked down at his work in frustration, rubbing out the mistakes and fixing them quickly. “Why don't you do it then, if our work is so bad?” he asked as Rose did the same beside him.

“I have shaky hands,” Crowley mumbled. “And anyway, you offered.”

“Actually, that was Rose that made that mistake, mine was just agreeing to it.”

Rose elbowed the Doctor in his side, making him snicker. Seeing that Crowley seemed pointedly engrossed in his book, they returned begrudgingly to their work. A few moments passed in quiet before Rose saw Crowley shift minutely in her peripheral vision.

“A friend of mine got, uh… taken, today. And I’m pretty sure angels are behind it,” Crowley explained from behind the book, which he continued to study with perhaps exaggerated focus.

The Doctor sent a glance to Rose. “So… what’s your plan? You’re just gonna… call Heaven and ask for him back?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Crowley scoffed. “I’m also going to threaten them wildly.”

Rose choked. Crowley raised an eyebrow at her from behind his book.

“I’ve pretty limited options at the moment, you know, I’m making due,” he said. “Besides, most angels are pretty scared of Aziraphale and me since we stopped Armageddon a few months back, so I’ve that going for me.”

Rose blanched. She sat up straight from her kneeled position and looked at Crowley with wide eyes. “Hold on, since you did _what?”_

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Long story. Not all that interesting. Involves an English terrier. Point is, it works in my favor, ‘cause the idiots Up Top think we’re unkillable.”

“We’ll unpack all that later,” the Doctor said. “What would they want with your friend?”

Crowley frowned. He gave up on the book pretense, finally, set it down on the counter beside him and leaned heavily against it. “That’s what’s been bugging me. He doesn’t work for them anymore, and since they’re under the impression that we can’t be killed, I’m not sure what they’re expecting to get out of this. Kidnapping their own isn’t exactly Heaven’s usual MO.”

“That is pretty strange,” the Doctor agreed, looking thoughtfully down at his summoning circle again. Then his eyebrows shot up in realization. “...unless,” he reasoned. “No, that would be so dramatic. But, I mean…” He made eye contact with Rose, whose expression of thoughtful shock matched his own, and raised tilted his head meaningfully at her. “I mean, you know. _Unless.”_

Crowley growled in frustration. “Unless _what?”_

Rose sat up on her haunches. “Are you sure it was angels that took your friend?”

“Wh-- are you joking? Of course I’m sure,” Crowley spluttered. “I know an angel when I see one. Trust me, they’re pretty damn distinctive.”

“Of course. I’m sure it looked just like an angel. But there are a good deal of alien species that are known for mimicry,” the Doctor countered. “The Bible seems pretty popular here, so it’s possible--”

“I _know_ what aliens look like. This wasn’t one.” Crowley’s shoulders were high beside his ears.

“You didn’t know the Doctor was an alien,” Rose pointed out.

Crowley pushed off the table and started for the half-finished summoning circle. He stood before the base of it and pointed at the couch. “Off,” he said.

“What?” Rose looked down at her circle in confusion. She hadn’t even started the centerpiece yet. “It isn’t finished yet.”

“Get off the circles,” he repeated, and this time they did.

Then Crowley snapped his fingers, and the summoning circles completed themselves, the white chalk lines smoothing out into perfect geometry, branching out to fill in the gaps that had yet to be sketched in yet. As it completed, Crowley produced a set of small candles from his ottoman, placed them, and lit them with his fingertips.

“Oh, that’s handy,” the Doctor said. “Why didn’t you just do that from the start, then?”

“I was hoping it would keep you busy enough not to have to talk,” Crowley grumbled.

“Ah,” said the Doctor. "Well, having never heard of me before, it's fair that you thought that would work."

\--

With the circles complete, Crowley placed his hands in prayer position, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The book had said that, when summoning angels, it was best to state one’s name, request, and desired angel with as much respect and deference as possible. Crowley thought that was stupid, and he was about to take a massive dump over that protocol.

“Hi,” Crowley drawled. “It’s me. Crowley. You know, the snake of Eden, the tempter of nations, and,” his lip curled derisively, “the guy that’s going to personally come up there and hand deliver an ass-whooping the likes of which you royal tarts could never _begin_ to conceive if someone with any small modicum--” he realized he was now rapidly approaching a shout “--of _dumbshit authority_ doesn’t PICK UP within the next THIRTY SECONDS--”

The summoning circle shuddered suddenly to life. Sunlight streamed in over the circle from somewhere, though Crowley definitively did _not_ have a skylight, and illuminated the sigils and inscriptions as they began to slowly rotate. The white chalk lines vibrated on top of the dark tile of Crowley’s living room floor, shivering, as liquid light poured from the edges toward the center, a marblelike pattern of milky whiteness obscuring the designs below. And finally, with a definitive, authoritative _clunk,_ the circle finally shot up a hologram of--

Some. Random angel? Crowley squinted, frowned. The angel looked just about as confused as Crowley was, and terrified to boot, their eyes wide, looking away from Crowley to someone out of view and speaking animatedly, motioning toward their workspace.

“What the fuck is…?” Crowley mumbled, mostly to himself. Then he raised himself to speaking volume and said, “I don't know who you are, but I'm looking for-"

A pair of berobed arms suddenly shoved the rank-and-file out of frame, and in their place, looking the most trying-not-to-look-flustered Crowley had possibly ever seen any angel, was Michael herself. Her eyes were wide, maybe a little wild, and her chest rose and fell like she’d actually _run_ to get over here. Good, Crowley thought. Make them all squirm.

“Michael,” Crowley crowed. He spread his arms at his sides. “Oh, great. So good to see you. I haven’t seen you since you last tried to kill me, have I? Loving the outfit.”

Michael took a moment to compose herself, somewhat uselessly at this point, and then sat up straight, pressed a button out of view and trepidatiously began, “Ah, the-”

“Shut up,” Crowley immediately cut in. “I don’t care. Look at me.” He glared at Michael’s projection. “Look at me,” he repeated. “Look me in the eyes, you glorified pigeon, and tell me what the fuck you people have done.”

Michael stared, wide-eyed, at Crowley. “Um,” she began, a little helplessly, before seemingly remembering her status and raising her chin, regarding him with imperious disdain Crowley now recognized as forced. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about; nor why a vile little creature as yourself would-”

“Cut the shit, Michael. You know exactly why I’m here, and the fact that you’re wasting both of our time pretending you don’t is an insult to my intelligence and a reflection of your own.” Crowley took a step forward now, the edge of his shoe just barely centimeters before the glyphs. He felt his eyes burning behind his sunglasses and swiped them off his face, forcing Michael to behold the full intensity of his gaze. “What have you done with Aziraphale?”

Michael’s brow furrowed. She frowned at him and tilted her head a bit, her gaze entirely blank. “Aha… what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Crowley glared up at Michael’s projected torso. “Saint James’ Park. Little over half an hour ago. Sent an errand girl down to snatch Aziraphale up in broad daylight, I was there, I saw it happen, I know you have him, now what have you done with him?”

Michael eyed him for a moment in silence. Then she said, with an air of disinterested bemusement, “Heaven does not send ‘errand girls,’ Crowley. Now, I don’t know what you saw, and frankly I don’t care, but it certainly was not us. Please do not call again,” and promptly hung up.

\--

Aziraphale hadn’t realized how long he’d just been sort of staring at the angel until she tilted her mass of eyes curiously at him and asked, “Are you alright?”

No, he wasn’t. “Yes, I’m, ah,” he began, now completely unsure what to say. “I, um. Well, you’ll think me daft, but-- actually, I thought I was going to Heaven just now.”

The angel’s eyes widened at him for a moment, impossibly huge, in surprise; then she laughed, a sweet and melodic sound, like miniature bells. “I’m so sorry,” she said, gently shaking her form ‘no.’ “I imagine that must’ve been scary for you. No, we-- we’re in London.”

“So you’ve told me,” Aziraphale agreed. He hesitated, worrying his lower lip, for a moment before he ventured, “So, you… aren’t an angel, then?”

“No,” she assured him. “Not at all; although we did inspire some of those old legends.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. To an extent, it put him at ease to know he wasn’t in any danger of another dance in hellfire; but at the same time, he realized that he was now entirely out of his depth. He had no idea who was holding him here, let alone why or for how long. He glanced at his restraints, remembering their lack of response to his miracles, and swallowed nervously, turning his gaze up to meet the strange being’s multitude. “So then, ah… what exactly are you?”

Now, she hesitated.

\--

“They had no idea what I was talking about,” Crowley said, staring blankly at the deactivated summoning circle, “which means that it wasn’t real angels that took Aziraphale, which means.” Crowley stopped. He pursed his lips. He really didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want this to be where his life was going.

“Aliens,” Rose supplied.

But he knew it was the truth.

Crowley grimaced and nodded his head. “Aliens,” he echoed.

\--

“Aliens” was a bit of a misnomer when 274 sat down and thought about it. After all, they had come to Earth a long time ago, before any of the humans up top had, and they’d grown accustomed to it - gone native, she reckoned. 274, along with the rest of the Spligobons, had gotten here somewhere around one million years ago. Since that time, they had watched Humanity and waited. Watched and waited, not at all liking what they saw.

Recently though, they were just confused. Something very peculiar had happened. They weren’t sure how it did. They kept excellent records; it was all they ever got up to, so they were rather anal about it. But somehow, when 274 had pulled up the logbook and began her daily entry that fateful morning, the last timestamp before 2020 was February 11, 2009: nearly 11 years just plain empty. It was like they had all developed synchronized long-term narcolepsy. Apparently they even slept through, as furtive locals with bloodshot eyes said, an apocalypse.

Or maybe something else had happened. Something rather stupider and more accidental.

It was possible, 274 had speculated. Strictly speaking she wasn’t supposed to speculate; but she did. And she speculated that, yes, it would all be very well in theme if this were the machinations of one Great, big, stupid Plan.

\-- 

  
Somewhere very far away, a consciousness was stirring. She was very tired, and She liked Her beauty rest, and given the recent events regarding the Antichrist it had seemed, for a moment, that She would finally be able to get it. But She could tell something had changed. Something was afoot, had been afoot for several weeks now, that She had not planned. As She sat up and peered down at Her Creation, She thought, curiosity bleeding into Her being, _Hm. Yeah, I’ve no clue_.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and that's the first chapter! ~Cue spacey 2000s Doctor Who outro music.~  
> Lemme know what you think. If you enjoyed it, consider subscribing to the work and/or me. I'm not the fastest writer, but I'm very determined to make this project happen.  
> If you want to contact me, your best bet is my tumblr, @0nelater. I'm not super active on there as it isn't my main, but I'll always respond to DMs and asks as soon as I see them! Otherwise, leave a comment, feedback is my lifeblood.


End file.
